


Interlude on the Way to Real Life

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'What if' Brian had slept with Michael (season two).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude on the Way to Real Life

         

You wrapped me ‘round your little bitty finger

With your magic smile

You kept me hanging on a lover’s cross awhile

You put your spell on me

Took my breath away

But there was nothing I could do

To make you stay

I’m gonna miss you

 

(Milli Vanilli – I’m gonna miss you)

 

B: Hey sunshine, come congratulate me. Your partner just made partner.

(QAF E:217)

 

 

~~~***~~~

 

_First? There’s Panic. Before any stage of grief sets in._

 

It’s done long before they both climax, and by the time orgasm floods through them both, it’s almost an afterthought. Something that happened because hell, they’re here, they already fucked up, might as well seal the deal and let _something_ come from it.  Ha. Something come…

Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking screwed that’s not even slightly funny. 

What’s worse is he doesn’t know how this could have – after seventeen god-fucking-damned-piss-fucking-shit years. How could he have let this happen? 

What the fuck did he think he was doing?

They lay side by side on the dirty floor of the comic shop, while Brian contemplates the width and density of a good-sized dustbunny. Trying to keep from thinking for a little while longer what this is going to mean in the scheme of things.  

Michael, beside him, is on the edge of hyperventilation. Which is amusing because between the typical in-the-moment pants and after-the fact panic attack…well, he’s been huffing and puffing like the fucking big bad wolf for a good twenty minutes now; Brian had been under the impression that that role was strictly reserved for him. Get your own impersonations Mikey.

Brian sits up, strips off the condom, zips his pants while adjusting himself back inside. Tuck yourself in, pull yourself together. It hasn’t been his mantra since that first night, that first time seventeen years ago. He hasn’t needed it, he hasn’t allowed himself to feel so fucking split open, so raw and vuln—open since that night. Since his first fuck. 

Every fuck after had been entirely in his control. Entirely because he wanted it, just this way.  

He never imagined he’d feel this way again. Especially not with Michael.  

Michael’s hyperventilation slows itself, calms, like he knew it would, and the man follows Brian’s lead. Sits up, dusts himself off while tucking and zipping. His hands are shaking, Brian can see it from the corner of his eye. He’d know anyway, sight or not.  

He gives it three minutes tops, before Michael starts blubbering and apologizing. Better than planning a fucking wedding though, there is that.  

He’s not in the mood for either.  

“Oh my god, what am I going to tell Ben.”  

Brian feels his own lungs dissolve, his own trachea shut down, his own heart thud once then still. It’s worse. It’s worse than apologies and fucking Vera Wang.  

“You don’t tell him a fucking thing. There’s nothing to tell,” Brian says firmly. His voice sounds weird to his own ears. He doesn’t know how it sounds to Mikey, doesn’t matter, Michael’s not listening anyway.

 “Jesus, Brian, what’d we do?” Michael wrings his hands in his lap, wringing, turning, churning. And Brian can’t watch, he slaps his own hand over both of Michael’s and stills their fluttering.  

“Stop it.” Michael stops. “We don’t talk about this, we don’t think about it. It never happened.”  

Michael is sitting there dazed, flushed, swollen. Silent and still in a way Brian hasn’t seen since they were both fourteen years old and each suffering from the anxiety of coming out to the only friend they’d each ever had.  

“Say it,” Brian watches Michael watch their hands and already knows. Already knows. But fuck if he’s not going to get him to say it anyway, commit to it anyway so that when he inevitably betrays him and blabs it out at least...at least Brian would have tried. 

“Michael!” 

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he mutters into his shirt collar. Goddamn, he’s going to pull the recalcitrant child bullshit. 

“No, no whatever.” Brian grabs Michael’s chin between two fingers and yanks his head up to meet Brian’s eyes. “No fucking whatever. I mean it, this never happened. Say it.” 

“Brian let go.”

 "Fucking say it, Michael. I’m not kidding.” He presses down a little with the palm of one hand, squeezes a little tighter with the fingers of the other. Not on purpose, never on purpose. 

“You’re hurting me.” Michael twists his head free, grimacing. 

“Mikey, say it.” 

“It never happened.” 

Heart, throat, lungs. He doesn’t mean it. 

Michael climbs to his feet and busies himself behind the counter. Stacking, ordering, packing.  

The entire store smells like sex. Smells like them. 

Brian knows, walking out the door, that it’s only a matter of time. Michael can’t keep a secret for shit. It’s more a matter of when than if; he doesn’t know how much time he has for damage control. He doesn’t know if after tonight he’ll even still have Michael as a friend.  

Brian shuts his eyes tight, feeling the headache build between his temples. 

He doesn’t know if after tonight he’ll have Justin.  

One fucking stupid mistake. One fucking stupid---  

Fuck! Why?

 

***++***

 

  _Then comes DENIAL, all capitals, no exceptions._

  

He shuts the door behind him and he knows. He knows. It’s a gut knowledge that’s as second nature as his ability to avoid tricks that think ‘thrill’ is synonymous with ‘bloodsport’.  

He knows. It’s easier to pretend he doesn’t. Easier to lose himself in the goal of the moment.  

He knew the moment after walking out of Michael’s shop, he knew the night he came out the bathroom to find Justin packing his shit like the hounds of Baskerville were behind him, he knew those three idiotic weeks of pussyfooting around each other. He knows now.  

There’s nothing he can do about it. 

So he keeps walking. He has business to take care of, and business comes first.

In fact, he doesn’t think of Justin once while he’s away. Not during the plane trip to Chicago, not on his way to a self appointed meeting, not while wheedling and fucking his way through obstacle number one, nor during his moment delivering the final coup de grace. Not once. 

He rides high on the euphoria of success and manages to ignore his knowledge all the way back to the Pitts. Back to the loft, back home.  

When he gets there though, as he opens those metal doors, he can’t keep fooling himself.  

He knew when he left he’d be returning to nothing. There would be no one there waiting for him.  

The knowledge isn’t quite enough to prepare him for the shock of being right.  

He knows. He fucked up. And they’re done.  

What Brian doesn’t know is what to do with that.  

So in the end? He does nothing.

 

***+++***

 

_Rationalization_

 

 Over the next few days, Justin’s absence is felt immensely, in the way the loft echoes strangely, emptily. It hasn’t been empty for nearly two years now. That echo, that soft silence, it’s a luxury he wasn’t granted in nearly two years. It’s going to be strange getting it back. As much of it as he wants, as long as he wants, forever and ever, until he’s physically sick from it. 

This wasn’t quite such a depress—

Fuck that. He’s not depressed, he’s just…he’s…he’s fucking pissed off. That’s what. The little brat can’t get his way so he plays scorned damsel. Like he didn’t know. Like Brian didn’t tell him how it was, like Justin didn’t agree.

It’s almost a week now. Even if he went on the trip to Vermont, he’d be back by now. And still nothing.  

Each time the phone rings, he feels like a jackass… he reminds himself he’s not waiting for any particular call.  

If the world was a fairer, not even fair just fairer, place…that would make it easier when that particular call doesn’t come.

And if it did…what c-- what would he say?  

The thing with Mikey… 

Fuck. He’s not thinking about that. 

It was a mistake when it happened; it’s a mistake now. No amount of ‘sorries’ is going to change that fact, nor spin back time and end with a different choice. No amount of ‘ I didn’t mean to’s  are going to convince Justin of his sincerity or remove the betrayal from his eyes. He could start now and never speak another word unless it was in the form of an apology for the rest of his life and those four things would Still. Never. Happen.  

So what would be the point?  

The night passes slowly. 

 

***+++***

 

_Pain Management_

 

He gets his call. Justin informs him in three sentences or less the discontinuation of their previous living arrangements, and states by implication his desire to cease all further contact. The little shit is diplomatic. He’ll give him that. 

What he needs is…a distraction. 

It’s a revelation worthy of a noble prize, or at least honorable mention. Not terribly original or complex but beautiful in its simplicity, admirable in its reliability. 

He fully intends to dedicate himself to the cause. He shall apply himself diligently, studiously, meticulously! Like he’s never applied himself before.  

He thinks about calling Justin, once. Seeing how he is. He even gets his hand around the phone before sense knocks into him. 

Wouldn’t want to waste his precious time, it says. He’s the one who left, it says. 

Tastes a little like fear.

  

***+++***

 

_Denial/Rationalization_

 

Love is a myth. 

It’s a lie people tell themselves to alleviate guilt. Make it socially respectable to fuck, to behave like idiots, to satisfy their masochistic needs to get hurt…again…and again…and again. 

It’s an emotional crutch people use to feel better about themselves; a fucking bullshit lie. He knew a blonde once who would have said it just like that. Fucking bullshit lie.  

He’s willing to admit to affection, like, admiration, obligations and mutual dependence. 

But love? It’s a lie.  

Besides, those other things are highly … over-rated. Justin’s a fool for ever believing in any of it. It’s better that they end here, now, like this. Before …Before… 

He can’t even finish the sentence to himself.

 

 ***+++***

 

_Pain Management_

  

***+++***

 

_Pain Management_

  

***+++***

 

_Pain Management_

  

***+++***

_Hmm…Pain --- Den— Ration--No. Okay, Pain Management_

  

It’s better than asking…why aren’t you missing me? 

Less pathetic. No one need know just how pathetic Brian is right now.

 

 ***++***

 

 _And finally acceptance…No. No. Cross that out: Plan formation._

_(Brian Kinney doesn’t have to accept Shit.)_  

It’s been nearly a year and life has gone on. It goes on everyday, a little more unyielding, a little more …a little more.  

Michael… He hasn’t had time to deal with Michael, he’s been dealing on his own for once. All energy and effort going into being fine, being great, being a little less…Christ…in love.  

Energy and Effort don’t always equal Success.  

He can’t even blame Justin, not really.  

Not outside the burn of self-righteous self-possession being all liquored up brings. For once, he thinks he’s understanding his old man a little better.  

He fucked this up. He did the unthinkable. He allowed the threat of (always alone) of…he allowed himself to do what he promised he never would. That’s on him. Not Justin.  

The most you could fault the kid for was sticking around a little longer than he should.  

It’s been nearly a year and his life is changed in all those little ways he never thought he needed.  

And Mikey’s not there to pick up the slack, to put him back together.

And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men… 

Let Brian Kinney languish in the mess that he made.  

 

****+++****

 

_Step 1) Admit you have a problem_

  

Here’s the thing about messes, if you make ‘em you generally can clean ‘em up.  

Not always. He learned that from his Pop. But Generally.  

He misses Michael he does, but he …he…(needswantsmisseslovesaches) yeah. It’s a problem that he can’t even say that much in his own head.  

He can’t admit…can’t admit love.  

Can’t admit he loves him more than anyone would have ever expected, and Justin deserves it. He deserves to know that more than anything else Brian has ever spoken.  

Well, hell, guess that’s admitted. No hellfire and brimstone, no melting or bleeding, he’s still breathing. What the fuck next.  

 

***+++***

 

_Step 2) Do what you have to, whatever you have to, to fix it._

  

Justin shows up at his door at their hour. Drunk and belligerent. Brian’s had a lot of practice with the two states, but he’s still no good at managing ‘em.  

And this…Justin’s throwing him off his game. 

“Yes, I wanted them! Yes, I still want them, fuck, yes.” All Brian can hear is Yes I still want them. Yes I still want them.  And in his mind he translates them into him. Fuck, yes I still want you.  

Something inside eases, relaxes, backs the fuck off, for the first time in nearly a year. And he thinks: I can do this.

“In spite of everything you almost loved me. I almost made you love me, right? Tell me that wasn’t a lie too.”  

“You’re drunk.”  

“Brian…”  

“You’re drunk.” Or you wouldn’t have to ask that. You’d know.  

He wants to go to him, hold him, touch him, answer with his body like he never can with his mouth. So he does.  

But he knows, even that’s not enough. He might not have enough to give.  

If only Justin would ask him, say to him: “I’m not asking for you to change now, not today, not a week from today. I’m asking if it’s possible one day you’ll want something more. One day we’ll both be on the same page. Do you think that’s possible?”  

To which Brian would respond “Yes. I think that’s possible.” Or some cleverly phrased variation thereof.  

It’s a cop-out, it’s cowardice. He knows that. He can admit it to himself. And eventually, if he’s serious about this…then he can’t. he can’t pull that shit.  

He’s never had to hold on before. Not when someone else was letting go. Not as an adult. Not with the faintest inkling of a hope (a promise a whisper a hope) that …his efforts wouldn’t be for shit.  

He’s never had to get serious.  

He thinks. He thinks for once he wants that. He’s ready.

           


End file.
